


the winter you know

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Jon finds Martin in the archives, early on a rainy Sunday.Martin finds kindness and care in an unexpected place.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 34
Kudos: 274





	the winter you know

**Author's Note:**

> alright folx I'm back again with a oneshot this time!! this one is set in season 2, sometime after Jon finds out that Martin lied on his CV and starts to trust him again. 
> 
> WARNINGS: injuries, brief description of violence
> 
> Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! <3

_‘Course it would be raining._

Jon steps across the threshold of the Institute, leaning his cane against the window for a moment to fold his umbrella. It’s Sunday, and the quiet hangs heavy in the air. Not that the Institute is a particularly bustling place, but all the same, Jon finds himself missing the presence of familiar faces. Why he’s come here today is unclear to him. This happens more often than not these days—feeling as though he missed something, certain he needs to be at the Institute just to make sure, anxiety creeping steadily into compulsion.

_Why am I here? What kind of miserable workaholic shows up to his archiving job on the weekends?_

He sighs, shaking his head. Contrary to Martin’s belief, he had actually tried going to therapy, anything to rid himself of this miserable paranoia that has gradually taken over his life and ruined his friendships. It’s not that he had many to begin with, but…even Sasha seemed different now, and that hurts deeper than he could ever express.

Taking up his cane again, he wipes his feet on the mat briefly before riding the lift down, down, down into the archives.

Cold dread overtakes him as the lift door opens.

A light has been left on.

And he knows he did not leave it.

_They’ve come for me they’ve come for me they’ve come for me_

Jon is not equipped for a fight, and he knows it—the best he can do is stand in the dim light of the EXIT sign, flooding hot and red across his skin, gripping his cane with both hands, ready to strike. His breath quickens, blood pounding through his ears as he searches wildly about for whatever attacker may come—

But no one does. 

Several minutes go by without sight or sound. At last, his injured leg begins to shake, protesting both the exertion and the lack of support, and he cautiously lowers his cane back to the ground.

_You’re being absurd, Jon. You left the light on, or the custodians did._

Slowly, ever so slowly, he makes his way forward toward the source of the light, which streams from behind the door to the assistants’ workspace. He reaches out one arm with trepidation, swinging the door wide. To his surprise, someone has, in fact, joined him in the archives on this rainy Sunday—Martin, of all people. He is currently hunched over his desk, presumably reading something.

Jon is momentarily frozen, taken so completely aback by Martin’s presence that he feels anger beginning to rise in him. He takes one heated step forward, intending to let Martin know exactly how he feels about being startled, when a thought crosses his mind, stopping him in his tracks.

_Is he living in the archives again? Has something happened?_

Breathing for a moment, he rearranges his expression carefully before continuing forward. He clears his throat as he approaches Martin’s desk.

“Martin?”

At the sudden noise, Martin jumps bodily, head whipping around and hands coming upward in some gesture of defense. His panicked movements cause Jon to cry out in surprise, stepping immediately away from him as his hands gradually lower, one coming to rest on his chest.

“ _Jesus_ , Jon.”

“I-I’m so sorry, Martin, I should ha—”

He breaks off, eyes roaming over Martin’s body for a moment. He’s disheveled, more so than Jon has ever seen, trousers and jumper wrinkled in odd places. Where his forearms are exposed by clumsily rolled-up sleeves, Jon can see several bruises have formed—approximately hand-sized. On top of everything sits a nasty black eye, purpled and pulsing, forcing his left eye nearly shut by the swelling.

Alarm rings through Jon’s mind, and his eyes go wide.

“Are you…are you in trouble?” he asks, keeping his voice intentionally low.

Martin exhales sharply, eyebrows knitting together in frustration. As he stands, intending to walk away, he begins to sway—so intensely that Jon reaches out a hand to steady him as he tips forward against his desk. 

“Martin? Are you alright?”

He breathes heavily for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, before lifting himself to his full height once more. 

He _towers_ over Jon.

_Christ._

“ _Really_ , Jon? I’ve already explained a hundred times that I had nothing to do with Gertrude, and if you can’t trust me now, after _everything_ , then I really don’t know what to say.”

At this, he begins to walk briskly past Jon, chin uplifted in determination to get out of this situation. As he passes, Jon reaches out, lightly grabbing at Martin’s sleeve, knowing that he dislikes unexpected touch.

Martin freezes, face turning a bit pink and not meeting Jon’s eyes. Jon keeps his voice low, steady, and grounding as he steps back into Martin’s eyeline.

“I just meant…that looks painful. Can I—will you please let me help?”

Dropping his gaze, chin to chest, Martin exhales a slow and shaky breath. Jon watches with rising concern as Martin swallows thickly, blinking away tears while examining Jon’s gentle hold on his sleeve, looking entirely overwhelmed and _exhausted_.

Something unnamed pulses and swells in Jon’s chest.

“Y-yeah, I…thanks,” Martin replies, voice nearly a whisper.

“Alright. Come here, then.”

He leads them to the break room, glancing over his shoulder ever so often, just to be sure that Martin has followed.

_God, what on earth could have happened?_

Though he manages to maintain a mostly-calm exterior—a rarity that he acknowledges with pride—his thoughts swirl rapidly—desperate to know what’s happened, who did this, how he can stop it from happening again. As they enter the break room, he pulls out a chair from the table, patting the back of it briefly and leaning his cane against the tabletop.

“Sit down,” he commands, voice still kept low even with his growing anxiety.

Martin obliges, dropping heavily into the seat, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh. Turning on his heel, Jon rummages hastily through the freezer, relieved to find a bag of frozen vegetables. He hands it to Martin, who mutters a “thanks” before gingerly pressing it against his injured eye, wincing against the cold shock of it.

Jon stares for a moment, worrying at his bottom lip.

_He looks miserable._

Decision made, he turns back to the kitchenette and fills the kettle for tea. As it boils, Jon searches through the cabinets, finding such a wide variety of teas to be had that he is forced to ask Martin which he prefers.

“Martin, would you like—”

He stops, freezing in place as he turns around.

Tears are streaming down Martin’s face, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

_Oh god._

Panicked, Jon glances wildly around the room for something, anything that might help. His eyes land on the roll of paper towels by the sink and he quickly tears some off, hastening to hand them over to Martin.

“S-sorry, tha-thank you,” he stammers between sobs, wiping at his eyes carefully.

Jon is rooted to the spot, eyes wide, feeling extremely out of his depth. His arms are locked in a sort of half-reaching position, unsure whether to give comfort or space. He is not left to wait for long, however, as Martin lowers the paper towels, giving a hollow laugh and a smile.

“ _God_ , that hurts. Should avoid doing that again,” he says as he reaches up to rub at his injured eye, before thinking better of it.

Jon does not laugh. The emptiness of Martin’s voice sends a shiver up his spine, disturbing him more than he’d like to admit. Biting again at his lip, he points to the bag.

“Put that back on,” he says softly as he turns back to the tea.

Face hidden now, Jon allows himself a moment to process what has happened.

_You trust him. You decided that you do._

_You trust Martin._

_…does he trust me?_

He resumes his task, realizing that he does not know how Martin takes his tea. Looking at the ceiling for a moment, he desperately tries to remember how his own tea looks when he delivers it to him—but for the life of him, no picture comes to mind.

_Damn it all._

“Martin, d’you…do you take milk? In your tea?”

“Oh! Um, yeah—milk and a bit of sugar, thanks.”

The surprise evident in Martin’s voice upon being asked is enough to send ripples of guilt through Jon’s chest.

_I’ve been…I’ve been so cruel to him, really._

He sighs heavily, allowing himself a moment of shame before fulfilling Martin’s request. Setting their mugs down on the table, he takes a seat in the adjacent chair, picking at the scabs on his hands.

“Thanks, Jon, really, this is…this is really nice.”

“It’s no trouble.”

They remain silent for a few moments, Martin taking a sip of his tea before replacing the frozen bag over his eye. Jon looks up then, not wanting to push, but…

_I have to know._

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?” he asks, forcing his voice into a gentleness that does not come easily to him.

“Not really.”

The flatness of Martin’s tone throws him, but he clears his throat and presses on.

“Look, Martin, I have to admit…this worries me considerably.”

At this, Martin lets out a frustrated huff, setting his mug back down forcefully, and meeting Jon’s gaze with coldness.

“This was really all a ploy then? You still don’t trust me? _Me_ , of all people?”

Jon leans back in surprise, lifting his hands in consolation.

“N-No! No, Martin, I just meant…I’m just worried about you. I’m worried _for_ you, really.”

Martin visibly deflates at this, the burst of energy spent on his anger quickly giving way to exhaustion. Dropping his gaze, he stares into the steaming mug and adjusts his grip on the frozen bag. Jon is hit suddenly with the mad urge to cover Martin’s hand with his own, but shoves the thought down as forcefully as possible.

“Listen, you…you don’t have to tell me everything, but—can you at the very least tell me who did this?” he asks, tilting his head in an attempt to draw Martin’s gaze.

He does not look up, continuing to stare at his tea for a long while. Sensing that he is mulling it over, Jon turns his gaze back to his scarred hands, massaging them unconsciously.

_Please trust me please trust me please trust me_

At long last, Martin takes a deep, steadying breath before responding.

“It was my mum. She’s…she’s not well, it’s not her fault,” he says, voice thick, still staring into his tea.

_Oh, Martin._

“Your mum? Did she…did she move back in with you?”

“No, I went to Devon to visit her. She finally let me see her—a-and—"

His voice wobbles and breaks, tears spilling over his cheeks once more. Dropping the bag, he claps a hand to his forehead, gasping as he tries desperately to choke back the sobs that are threatening to resurface at any moment.

Jon _desperately_ wants to reach for him, to comfort him somehow.

“M-Martin, I—”

“ _God_ , I’m so sorry,” he bursts, wiping desperately at his face and sniffling.

“It…it’s alright,” he replies softly.

Martin’s arm is right there.

It’s _right there._

Slowly, cautiously, Jon reaches out a hand, making sure that Martin sees his approach, and clasps it over his wrist ever so lightly. He monitors Martin’s reaction carefully, ready to take back his hand at the first sign of any discomfort. When, after a few moments of staring, the tension in his arm relaxes and tears begin to well up once more, Jon applies just a bit of pressure in what he hopes is a gesture of comfort.

“It’s alright,” he repeats in a whisper.

Martin’s eyes close as he tries to ground himself, inhaling a few shaky breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth before continuing.

“I visited her, and she actually let me see her this time, and I was _so_ happy, Jon. I was so happy. But when I got to her room, she was just…angry. Angry that I was there, _and_ angry that I hadn’t been there before. I just…you’re going to think badly of me, but…”

He sniffs wetly, still not meeting Jon’s eyes.

“I got upset, I’ll admit. Raised my voice a bit. And I _know_ better, god, I _know_ that I can’t do that, that she gets upset when I do that. But I did it anyway and…and she hit me. I had to call for the nurse, I couldn’t calm her, she just kept h-…a-and I might never see her again, and…and I’m sure the staff think I’m a horrible son.”

Martin’s breathing has become more rapid throughout his explanation, hitching as he finishes, hot tears spilling down his face once more. 

Jon’s heart _aches_.

He begins slowly running his hand up and down the length of Martin’s forearm as he cries, a gentle reminder of his presence, of his care.

_God knows he needs someone_ , Jon tells himself.

_Might as well be me._

_I’ve done enough harm._

Eventually, Martin’s breathing slows, and he swipes at his eyes painfully with a paper towel.

“Martin, I…I’m so sorry. That’s really terrible.”

Martin huffs out a wet laugh, meeting his eyes at last.

“It’s alright. Just one of those things, I guess. I’m alright, really, this…this helped. Thank you, Jon, seriously.”

Martin’s half-swollen gaze is so intense with sincerity that Jon can’t bear to look away.

_Hazel eyes._

_I never noticed._

That as-yet unnamed warmth pools in his stomach once again, rising up to his cheeks and ears.

“Don’t…don’t mention it,” he stammers awkwardly, dropping his gaze and removing his hand from Martin’s arm at last.

He can feel Martin’s eyes still on his face, desperately hoping that he won’t notice the blush painted there. If he does, he has the graciousness to say nothing, turning instead to take another paper towel from the roll, scrubbing at his dripping nose and wincing in the process.

“God _,_ that _really_ hurts,” he says, followed by a short laugh. “Really ought to stop blubbering and making it worse, eh?”

Once again, Jon cannot bring himself to laugh.

_It’s not funny._

“Have you been to a doctor?” he asks, concern coloring his tone.

Martin looks back in surprise.

“What, for this? No no, it’s fine, it’s just a bruise. It’ll fade away.”

“What if you have a concussion?”

He laughs again. “I really don’t think it was that hard of a hit, Jon.”

“Seems it was hard enough to do some damage, anyway.”

Martin snaps his mouth shut, staring at Jon incredulously for a moment before turning away and sipping his tea, ending the conversation. Watching him for a moment, fingers drumming on the table, Jon decides that _no_ , this conversation is _not over._

“You looked dizzy earlier.”

Martin sighs into his mug. “Jon—”

“I’ll take you to a clinic. Please, Martin.”

Martin glares daggers at him, a bit scarier than usual given that he looks like he’s just come out of a fight. But Jon refuses to back down.

“Please. Just to check.”

He shakes his head, letting out a longsuffering sigh before throwing his hands in the air. 

“Fine. If it’ll make you feel better.”

“O-Oh. Right.”

Jon can’t help but be shocked by Martin’s compliance. He grabs his cane from the table as he stands.

“Let’s go then.”

At this, Martin moves to stand himself, with what seems to be a bit of trepidation. As he reaches his full height, his face turns ashen, and he sways forward to brace against the table, blinking rapidly once again. Jon’s reaches out to steady him instinctively, cane clattering to the floor.

“Martin! Sit back down, sit—”

“No no, I’m alright, Jon. I’m alright. Just need a second,” he stammers out quickly, squeezing his eyes shut, head hanging toward his chest.

Not quite trusting this, Jon lets his hands hover nearby, watching as Martin takes several breaths from this position. After a few moments, he opens his eyes, seeing Jon’s cane lying on the ground, and bends slightly to pick it up. He hands it to Jon, face flushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry about that.”

“It—it’s alright. Thank you.”

_Hazel eyes hazel eyes hazel eyes_

Jon coughs briefly, willing himself to focus.

“Erm, there’s a clinic a few blocks over that should be open. Where’s your car? I’ll drive you there.”

“It’s just ‘round the corner from the entrance, not far,” Martin mutters, still looking ashamed that anyone should have to care for him this way.

“Do you think you can make it there?” Jon asks anxiously.

“Yes Jon, really, I’m alright now—”

He breaks off as he pushes himself away from the table, dizzily staggering back a few steps as he does. Jon reaches for him then, looping his unoccupied arm around Martin’s to steady him.

“Well…a bit better, anyways. Perhaps.”

Jon snorts at this. “Alright, then. But you’re going to have to call Tim if you fall over, I am _not_ carrying you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Martin replies, a small grin at last spreading across his face.

…Jon has found a name for the warmth that keeps bubbling up in him.

_Oh._

_ Oh._

_Right._

He finds himself unable to stop mirroring his smile, and resolves to put as many as possible onto Martin’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> :,) I just........love them so much!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this, and have a wonderful day!
> 
> (come find me on tumblr if you want to send prompts, just chat, whatever! @celosiaa :))


End file.
